


silence in this room, the death of me

by orphan_account



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Reincarnation AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22485517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: fate really is a bitch like that sometimesor, 5 times jaskier dies and geralt lives, and 1 time something different happens
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 111
Kudos: 1054





	silence in this room, the death of me

**Author's Note:**

> y'all better thank dallie for convincing me not to make this too angsty.
> 
> [now with art!](https://hehearse.tumblr.com/post/625244170739712000/hes-smiling-but-its-not-a-nice-smile-too-much)

i.

There’s a rumor, started by a spurned lover or perhaps by the very subject of the rumor, that says that Witchers have no emotions. That the very thing that grants them their supernatural abilities takes away the biggest marker of their humanity. It’s a convenient rumor, Geralt will give it that. It makes it easy to explain his lack of attachment to people, his standoffish nature, his everything, really, and no one ever gets close enough to a Witcher to be able to argue against the validity of the rumor. 

Geralt tells himself that he likes it that way. All he needs is Roach and the two swords strapped to his back, nothing more,  _ no one _ more. He’s lived that way for years, until Jaskier. Until the stupid bard with his stupid lute decided to shove his way into Geralt’s life, no matter how prickly the Witcher acted. It was infuriating. Geralt kind of liked it. 

He would never, ever tell the bard that. Jaskier’s ego was too big as it was, especially with the rise in popularity of the recent ballads written about Geralt, but Geralt did enjoy his company. Jaskier’s endless chatter made the long treks in between villages feel shorter, even if the bard was just complaining about how bad his feet hurt. 

But Geralt knew, more intimately than most, that all things had to end. It happened with his mother, with Renfri, with everything good that had ever been a part of Geralt’s life. Perhaps that was the true curse of being a Witcher, the real price he had to pay for allowing himself to give into his emotions. 

Honestly, Geralt hasn’t seen Jaskier in years, their travels across the continent keeping them busy and separate, but he recognizes the voice singing a small tune well before the bard calls his name. Geralt can smell the alcohol coming off Jaskier in waves. Jaskier is pretty drunk, and the sun hasn’t even reached its highest point. Geralt bites back a groan. He’s friends with the bard, really, he is, but with sleeplessness gnawing away at his patience, Geralt isn’t sure he wants Jaskier, drunk or otherwise, around right this minute. 

And then the bard keeps talking, keeps following Geralt no matter how far around the perimeter of the lake he goes. He’s still chattering, lamenting the sudden departure of the Countess de Stael and Geralt’s rather rude description of his singing, when Geralt’s net drags heavy across the bottom of the lake. Geralt pulls the net out of the water, and there, covered in mud and gunk from the lake bed is a sealed amphora. 

_ That  _ gets Jaskier to stop talking. He’s staring in awe at the vase in Geralt’s hands. “Is that-?”

“The djinn,” Geralt confirms

“Do you mind if I just-” Jaskier moves before Geralt realizes. He’s in Geralt’s face when he hooks two fingers around a handle. “Take back that bit about my fillingless pie and you can have it.” 

The resulting tug-of-war with the amphora is not something Geralt is proud of, but he was so  _ tired _ . It’s a surprise to both of them when the seal comes loose with a loud pop. Jaskier doesn’t wait long before shoving past Geralt and making two wishes. He only stops when Geralt tugs him back by the collar. Jaskier snaps at him, throwing Geralt’s own words back in his face, and in frustration, it’s so easy for the words to escape from Geralt’s lips, unbidden.

Geralt shoves Jaskier against the tree, frustration and irritation seeping through every inch of him. “I want some damn peace!” 

As soon as Geralt says the words, the wind kicks up, and Geralt is too distracted yelling some sort of exorcism (taught to him by some priestesses many, many years ago) to get rid of the suddenly violent djinn that he doesn’t notice Jaskier’s wheezing until the bard spits up blood. 

“ _ Fuck! _ ”

The ride to Rinde feels like forever. Jaskier’s wet wheezing fills the silence between Roach’s hoofbeats and the frantic racing of Geralt’s thoughts. Djinn weren’t usually violent, testy and cranky definitely, but anyone would be after being sealed in a tiny bottle for centuries. So why had the djinn attacked Jaskier?

But it didn’t matter once the healer in town gave his prognosis and informed Geralt of Jaskier’s fate if he couldn’t get to a mage in time. But the nearest mage, the healer informed him, was two towns over, having been outlawed and banished from Rinde. Geralt cursed again, laid Jaskier over Roach before climbing up after him and taking off. 

Jaskier’s lips were faintly blue by the time Geralt made it to the nearest town. He stopped breathing sometime between there and the town where the mage resided. Geralt could hear the instant Jaskier’s heart stopped beating, when his whistling breaths faded away into silence.

Geralt pulled Roach to a stop. He slid off gently, careful not to disturb Jaskier’s body more than necessary. Using his sword, Geralt broke through the hard topsoil and then dropped to his knees. He dug the rest of the grave with his heads, sweat dripping into his eyes, down his nose, indistinguishable from any tears he may have been shedding. 

It was dawn by the time he laid Jaskier to rest, buried in the forest with his lute. “I’m sorry,” Geralt says to the mound of soft dirt in front of him. “I wish you could come back, so that you can hear me say sorry, and know I mean it.” In his saddlebags, Geralt carries a dagger, mostly used for hunting, but now he uses it to mark Jaskier’s grave. The steel bites into the dirt, and stays standing when Geralt steps back.

To make sure Jaskier’s grave stays untouched, Geralt twists his fingers in the sign of Quen, then in the sign of Yrden. It’s dangerous, combining signs like this, but Geralt doesn’t want anything to disturb the mound of earth and the body resting within. The signs fade in the light of the rising sun, and the dagger gleams as Geralt turns Roach towards the sun. 

The light warms his face, but inside Geralt is cold.

ii.

Geralt’s awoken from his sleep by a burning in his chest and the urge to head east. After a moment, the burning subsides and he chalks it up to a week of poorly cooked rabbit for dinner. He hasn’t stopped at an inn in even longer, choosing to hang around towns just long enough to dispatch the monster of the week and collect his coin before riding out.

It keeps him busy, keeps the sour taste off the back of his tongue when he hears a lute strum a tune still too familiar. His travels take him across the continent, but when he can, he always stops by Jaskier’s grave. Dandelions have grown around it and the dagger is turning red with rust but it remains standing and untouched. When the wind blows, the dandelion puffs scatter, disappearing into the trees. Geralt can’t help but think they’re fitting for his friend. 

The pull to go in a certain direction never weakens. Geralt ignores it for as long as he can, until one day it becomes too strong. Out of morbid curiosity, Geralt follows the pull across the continent until he arrives at the edge of a small town on the coast. 

There’s a house, set off from the rest and facing the road with a garden in front, that draws Geralt’s attention. In the garden is a man, gathering flowers and humming to himself. The tune carries across the open field, and Geralt stops breathing. He recognizes that voice.

The tug in Geralt’s gut is overwhelming, and he finds himself on his feet and striding across the field. Geralt could reach out and touch the man before the man looks up. Messy brown hair frames cornflower blue eyes, and though he’s older and isn’t wearing the dramatic clothes Geralt is used to, there’s no mistaking it. He’s looking at Jaskier, or someone who looks  _ very much _ like his  _ very dead _ bard.

A voice calls from the house, and it must be the man’s name because he glances backwards before looking back up at Geralt. “Do I...do I know you?” The voice in the house calls again and this time the man stands and turns to yell back. 

Geralt is gone by the time almost-Jaskier turns back around. 

If asked, Geralt couldn’t say why he stayed in that town. He had taken care of a Sahagin haunting the coast on the far side of town but that had been almost 3 days ago. Almost-Jaskier corners him in the pub a week later. 

A hand slam’s on Geralt’s table. Geralt follows it from paint stained fingers all the way up to those blue eyes he knew so well. They shine with recognition. “You’re Geralt of Rivia.” 

Geralt knows that it’s rare to find someone who actually remembers him these days. The ballads of the adventures of Geralt of Rivia had died with Jaskier and then faded into history with the passing of the years. 100 years can do a lot to a person’s reputation. So it’s rare, but not impossible. He eyes the almost-Jaskier carefully, but doesn’t reply. 

Almost-Jaskier doesn’t let that deter him. He settles into the table across from Geralt, plants his elbows on the table and leans on his hands. “I can tell by your face that you’re curious about how I know your name.” 

He’s right, but Geralt doesn’t tell him that.

“I’ve been having nightmares ever since I was born. Kept getting flashes of monsters that don’t exist except in the oldest of stories and songs. Dreams of a man with hair as white as snow and skin just as pale.” Almost-Jaskier takes a deep breath. “My name was - is - Julian Alfred Pankratz, better known as Jaskier, master bard and tag along to Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf.”

Geralt carefully sets his tankard of ale down. “How long have you known?”

“It all came back to me two days ago.” Jaskier sets his palms flat on the table. “Geralt, what happened? The last thing I remember was...well I remember the Countess breaking up with me and drinking away my sorrows.” He winces in memory of a hangover he never got to experience. “But there’s nothing after that.” Jaskier is silent for a moment, and though Geralt tries his best to keep his face blank, Jaskier must see something there because his face softens. “I died, didn’t I?”

The tankard in Geralt’s grip creaks ominously with how tight he’s squeezing it. “You did.” 

“How?”

Geralt’s eyes flash with something, hurt or anger or guilt or all of the above, but it’s gone as soon as it comes. “Does it matter?” Geralt takes a harsh drink of ale and sets his tankard down a little harder than necessary. “You’ve been dead for over 100 years, and I’ve been alive and…” Instead of continuing, Geralt finishes off the last of his ale and stands abruptly. “I should go.” 

Paint stained fingers wrap around one of Geralt’s straps. Anyone else would be shoved off immediately, but Geralt doesn’t even flinch. 

“I won’t ask again.” Jaskier is in front of him, blocking Geralt’s way out. “Just...what have you been up to Geralt? I’ve missed a lot of time, and even though I don’t have a lute anymore I have paint brushes. Surely you can spare me enough details to make an amazing painting, right?” 

And though Geralt is strong, he’s also so very weak. He follows Jaskier back to the house he saw earlier in the week. They spend a month in the garden, Geralt telling stories of his adventures while Jaskier paints away. 

Jaskier is working on a painting that he won’t show Geralt when a ship arrives at the dock. That’s unremarkable, usually, except that this ship was filled with more dead people than living people. There have been whispers around the continent for a while now about a curse that turns people black and leaves them bleeding from the mouth, eyes, and nose. It’s killed hundreds, and there seems to be no stopping it. 

Ever curious, Jaskier goes down to the dock to investigate, but he stays away from the bodies. He doesn’t see the rat that scurries past his ankles or the flea that hitches a ride on his pants. Jaskier comes down with a fever a week later. The bleeding starts shortly after. 

Geralt doesn’t want to watch Jaskier die again, but he can’t bring himself to leave his bard to suffer alone. 

Jaskier dies in September of 1348. Geralt buries him, paint brushes in hand, in the garden he loved so much. The painting he was working is a half finished image of Geralt, asleep on his back, surrounded by flowers. The sun shines off his hair, and Geralt in the painting looks more peaceful than the real Geralt has felt in ages. He takes it with him, carefully tucked into a saddle bag on his horse's side.

iii.

The cycle keeps going on. Every variation of Jaskier is not named Jaskier, but Geralt knows as soon as he lays eyes on the man, who he really is. Names aren’t important because its  _ always  _ Jaskier. They’re on the fifth repetition now, and Geralt is so tired of watching his bard die so soon after reuniting with him. He’s never been a strong believer in fate or destiny, but he’s almost willing to get down on his knees and beg if it means that he doesn’t have to watch Jaskier die again. 

He’s kept something from each Jaskier he’s met. Each one is an artist in their own way - a painter, a sculpter, a musician, if there’s something to be created Jaskier has done it. 

The year is 1862.

Jaskier had asked, once, if witchers ever retired. Geralt had said yes, when they get old, slow, and get killed. It’s been almost 600 years since the first Jaskier died, yet Geralt is still alive. He thinks he’s the last witcher left, though the term has faded into the dredges of history, along with most of the monsters he used to hunt. 

Geralt took to building to keep his hands busy. Over the years, he had saved up a considerable sum and built himself a small house on the extreme outer edge of Kazimierz Dolny. He did his best to keep to himself. He grew his own food and took care of a few animals. It was a calmer life than he ever imagined himself living. 

That peace was shattered when the burning in his chest starts again. Over the years, Geralt has come to realize that this means Jaskier has been reborn again. The tug is there too, weaker than it usually is. Jaskier is close, this time. 

Geralt staunchly ignores it, even years later when it grows nearly unbearable. He won’t go seek out Jaskier this time. He’s determined that this time, Jaskier will live as normal a life as possible, one without Geralt and the pain he seems to bring around. 

So years go on, and Geralt keeps to himself, repairs his house and generally doesn’t leave unless he has to. 

The winter of 1894 is unusually harsh. Geralt has to leave his home and ride through the snow to pick up some supplies to keep him through the cold. He needs a new coat and boots, but he has enough food stored away to last. 

He’s just outside of town when someone emerges from the snow banks. They stop, obviously trying to block Geralt’s path. He hasn’t seen bandits in a long time, but their tactics never change. Stop, encircle, attack. It’s rudimentary, and on someone other than a 600 year old Witcher, probably quite effective. 

Geralt comes to a stop in front of the man, but says nothing. Part one, stop.

“Where are you going, sir?” The man lifts an arm up, made to look like a stretch but it’s obvious to Geralt that he’s signaling to the men behind him. The snow crunches under their boots as they move closer. Step two, encircle. “Those are rather nice necklaces you have there.” 

The man is eyeing Geralt’s witcher medallion and another that is a newer addition. It’s a small dandelion puff, painstakingly created out of silver. The third Jaskier had been a jeweler, and had made Geralt the necklace shortly before dying during a robbery. 

Geralt inclines his head. “Thank you, I’m rather attached to them.” He’s smiling, but it’s not a nice smile. Too much teeth showing, eyes too wide and bright. It’s a grin that borders on feral, more wolf and monster than human. 

“That’s too bad,” the man says. His left hand is inching towards the knife Geralt knows he has hidden in his belt. Behind him, the others are moving closer. “We were really hoping you’d make this easy, but since you won’t…” The man in front of Geralt pulls out the knife and points it at the necklaces. Step three, attack. “We’ll just take them by force.”

And Geralt is rusty, but he’s still leagues stronger than any human. He takes a half step forward and thrusts the flat of his hand against the first bandit’s sternum. Bones give way underneath Geralt’s palm with a sickening crunch and the force pushes the man backwards several feet. He lands on his ass, coughing up blood as he tries, and fails, to take a solid breath.

The bandits behind him are sprinting towards him. Geralt turns on his heel and snarls in their faces. They stumble back, and the acidic smell of fear fills Geralt’s nose. The smart ones run, the others keep trying to attack. 

By the time Geralt is done, the bandits are spread out in the snow, still alive but injured beyond getting up.

Now that the fight is over, the adrenaline makes Geralt dizzy. He hasn’t done anything like this in a long, long time, and his body isn’t used to it anymore. Immortal though he may be, he’s still  _ old _ . He spots a tree in the distance and stumbles towards it. He sits in the snow, back against the tree and head between his knees, waiting for the world to stop feeling like it’s spinning. 

Once his head stops spinning, Geralt notices several things. First is the crunch of snow underneath boots, getting closer by the second. The second is the overpowering burnt smell of anger. Geralt looks up. 

On his left is a man with shaggy brown hair and brilliant blue eyes ( _ Jaskier _ , his mind supplies), steadily coming closer, looking less and less confused about why he’s walking towards the strange man sitting in the snow the closer he gets. On his right is another bandit, a straggler from the group that’s now passed out in the cold. Geralt makes eye contact with the bandit. 

He has a gun.

Geralt curses and stands as quickly as he can. The motion makes him dizzy again, but he powers through it, turning and walking towards Jaskier as fast as he can. He has an idea of how this is going to end, but damned if he’s going to let it happen without a fight. 

Jaskier has noticed the bandit now and the bandit has noticed him. The gun is raised, it clicks, and Geralt breaks out into a run. He’s so close.Just a few more feet and he can keep Jaskier safe. Jaskier moves and is in front of Geralt before Geralt can stop him. 

There’s a bang. Jaskier crumples. Blood turns the snow red. Geralt’s vision goes black. 

When Geralt comes to, Jaskier’s head is in his lap. Geralt is covered in blood, but he’s not sure how much of it belongs to Jaskier. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a much larger red spot in the snow. He closes his eyes. “You idiot,” Geralt mutters. “You absolute fool. Why did you do that?”

Something tugs at Geralt’s necklace and he looks down. Jaskier has ahold of the dandelion necklace. He smiles weakly as he meets Geralt’s eyes. “You kept it,” he croaks.

Geralt wraps a hand around Jaskier’s and curses at how cold it feels. “Of course I did...I’ve kept everything. The painting, the sculpture, the songs.” 

“Good.” Jaskier closes his eyes and Geralt figures that was his last word. Jaskier looks up again, eyes more cloudy than before. “What about the lute?” He slurs, sliding one hand against Geralt’s cheek. “You kept that too, right?”

Geralt doesn’t have the heart to say that he buried it the first time Jaskier had died. “I did.” 

With a last burst of strength, Jaskier pulls Geralt’s face down to his and gives him a kiss. Jaskier is smiling when he dies. 

Geralt buries him. When the snow melts on the ground and spring comes around, Geralt goes to find the lute he left behind. 

The first grave is still undisturbed. The dagger has rusted away to almost nothing, and it’s only by the residual magic that Geralt manages to find it at all. He digs until he can pull the lute free and then he covers it back up. For having been buried in the earth for several hundred years, the elven lute is still in very good condition. 

_ Good _ , Geralt thinks. _ I can return it to him eventually. _

iv. 

The world was on the brink of something bad when the burning started again. Geralt cursed. Hitler came to power 13 years later. Chaos began. 

Geralt enlisted in the war. He couldn’t sit around when he knew battle so well. It was different with a gun in his hand (he much preferred his swords), but he still proved himself invaluable. He made his other squad members uncomfortable. He was effective, could take a hit and keep going.  _ Inhuman, _ they muttered, behind his back. Geralt ignored them.

His commanding officers took him off the front line when Germany invaded Poland in 1939. Geralt never asked why, but he refused to be removed from the war completely and so took to helping around the medical tent. He was just as good with bandages as he was with a weapon, and if he used a little bit of the magic left in the world to ease pain, well, who needed to know. 

The pull in his chest was strong, borderline overwhelming. He was counting down the days until Jaskier showed up in the tent. It took approximately 180 days. Geralt had just returned from getting lunch when a familiar scent, rising above the blood and bleach and antiseptic caught his attention. Buttercups and sunshine. Jaskier. 

The scent took him to the very corner of the tent, where a very young Jaskier was shivering his way through a fever. He couldn’t have been older than 20 and Geralt’s heart  _ ached _ . It wasn’t fair that this kept happening, but Geralt had no idea how to stop it.

Jaskier cracks an eye open, cloudy blue meeting gold. “Geralt,” he mutters, smiling. “I kept dreaming about you...was wondering how long ‘till I found you.” 

“Hush,” Geralt grabs a rag and lays it across Jaskier’s forehead. “What mess did you get yourself into this time?” 

“Why do you always assume it’s my fault?” 

“Because it usually is.” 

Jaskier snorts, hanging just on the cusp of lucidness. “I’ll have you know,” he raises a hand to poke at Geralt’s chest. “I haven’t fucked another man’s wife in  _ a very long time _ .” 

Geralt shakes his head. “Rest, Jaskier. I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

And he was always there when Jaskier woke up. He was there when they amputated his leg in an attempt to stop the infection from spreading. For a while, it seemed like Jaskier was getting better. He was awake more often and his fever had broken. 

Maybe Geralt allows himself a little hope that this time would be the end of the cycle. Jaskier was going to get to go home, sans a leg, and live out a normal life until he died of old age. 

Destiny has other ideas. Two weeks before Jaskier is set to go home, Geralt notices that the skin around his missing leg is bright red and burning hot. It starts oozing pus a day later. The fever sets in next, and then the pain. 

Jaskier wasn’t lucid anymore. If it wasn’t the fever keeping him asleep, it was the pain. When Jaskier was awake, he was hazy and weak. He tried his best to keep conversations up with Geralt, but more often than not what he said was slurred and nonsensical and he dozed off in the middle of sentences. 

Geralt hated to see him like this. He did what he could with magic to ease Jaskier’s pain, but there wasn’t much magic left in the world at all. His signs had long become useless, and last he heard most true mages had died out. 

That night was the most lucid Jaskier had been in a while. He was sitting up in bed, still sweating from a fever, skin burning, but his eyes were clear, his smile soft. “Geralt,” he reached out to brush clammy hand down Geralt’s arm. 

“Hmm?”

“Geralt, I want to see the stars.” 

Odd requests were something Geralt was used to from Jaskier. He’d always had a flair for the dramatic. Geralt didn’t always indulge him, but it was late, and all the patients were asleep. Geralt picked Jaskier up carefully. He braced one arm under his knees and placed the other underneath his arm. The skin under his palm was too hot.

With Jaskier in his arms, Geralt picks his way carefully across the tent. They make it outside without incident, and Geralt places Jaskier down in the grass before following. 

The night is cool, bordering on the edge of too cold. Winter isn’t here yet, but it will be soon. For now, the air is crisp, the sky clear and the stars bright. “It looks a lot different, doesn’t it?”

It takes Geralt a minute to realize what Jaskier is talking about. “Astronomers say it’s because of modern lights. They make the sky too bright to see the stars.” 

“A shame, really.” Jaskier lays back and places his hands behind his head. He’s shivering, so Geralt covers Jaskier with his jacket. “I wrote so many songs and made many paintings about the stars. They were always a constant. When we didn’t have food or shelter at least we had the stars.” 

Geralt hums in agreement. 

“You haven’t changed much, you know.” When Geralt turns his head, Jaskier is staring at him. “Still grumpy and prickly, but definitely still Geralt of Rivia.” Jaskier laughs and starts singing, softly. “ _ These lines aren’t wrinkles, dear heart. They’re just dollops of paint on a new work of art… _ ” 

Jaskier trails off and Geralt realizes it’s because he’s fallen asleep. Jaskier doesn’t wake up come morning. 

v.

Geralt is not sure how he feels about the 1980’s. It’s weird, it’s bright, it’s loud. Jaskier probably loves it, Geralt just wants a nap. But there’s a tug in his chest, too strong to ignore anymore, and so Geralt, like all the times before and all the times to come, follows it.

It leads to him a back alley pub. The door is open, music and light spilling out onto the sidewalk, painting it in shades of neon. Geralt sucks in a breath, ignoring the throbbing in his ears from the bass he can hear from two doors down. Of course Jaskier would be here, the man had always loved a show.

It does not surprise him that Jaskier is the one on the stage, belting out lyrics and capturing the attention of everyone in the room. Jaskier has always had a big stage presence. The man never did anything by halves, even before there were special spaces made just for the sharing of music. Even in the Cintran court, Jaskier had been the center of attention anytime he opened his mouth.

Or maybe Geralt was just a little biased. 

But it didn’t matter because as soon as he walked through the door Jaskier was looking up, blue eyes locking with gold, and Jaskier was grinning. He didn’t stop playing, didn’t flinch, it was like he knew he was going to find Geralt tonight.

Geralt settles into a table in the corner and waits. Jaskier comes to find him shortly after the notes from his last song have faded into the murmur of the bar crowd. He slides into the booth beside Geralt, pressing close. 

“You don’t know what stranger danger is, do you?”

Jaskier grins, teeth flashing in the dim lighting of the bar. “You should know that by now. After all, I approached you in that tavern with nothing but  _ bread _ in my pants.” 

Geralt lets a chuckle rumble through his chest before Jaskier is pressing even closer. They go back to Jaskier’s place that night after being chased out of the bar by wolf whistles from Jaskier’s band mates. 

Turns out, in this lifetime, Jaskier is doing pretty well for himself. He’s not a world renowned musician, but he’s doing well enough to get by. He has a nice apartment tucked away at the edge of the city. Jaskier has a life, a job,  _ he’s happy _ . 

Geralt almost feels bad knowing that his arrival signals that Jaskier’s demise is coming sooner rather than later. He moves into Jaskier’s apartment anyways, not willing to spend anymore time apart than they have to. Jaskier’s lute gets a special place of honor above the fireplace. Jaskier doesn’t play it anymore, except on very rare occasions, but he could never part with it. 

This time, he gets 5 years with the musician. It’s not the shortest time he’s ever spent with Jaskier, but it never feels long enough, not to Geralt. 

That winter, Jaskier gets sick. The doctor says it’s just a cold. It never gets better. Jaskier keeps coughing and coughing, too weak to even get out of bed sometimes. He loses weight, becomes pale, and when they finally, finally, get a doctor who actually gives a shit, it’s too late.

The diagnosis is a death sentence. The cold has become pneumonia, usually not a fatal disease to someone Jaskier’s age, but when combined with AIDS… 

Jaskier goes home that night and composes a ballad, the likes of which Geralt hasn’t heard in centuries, entirely on his lute. Geralt pretends he doesn’t notice Jaskier’s tears staining the wood.

For a while, Jaskier seems to get better. He’s taking medication, trying his best to stave off the virus for as long as he can. He allows himself to hope that maybe, it won’t be so bad after all.

Jaskier starts forgetting. At first it’s simple things, his car keys, the lyrics to a song he’s known for years, but then it’s bigger things, his name, where he is. He forgets Geralt, sometimes. Geralt doesn’t mind reminding him on bad days and holding him through his lucid days. 

On one of his lucid days, Jaskier pulls out his acoustic guitar and works on a song. He never works while Geralt is there, doesn’t want to share it, Geralt never tries to pry. 

Jaskier dies the first day of spring a year later, just when winter has finally removed her grip from theworld. The first blooms of the year are peaking through the soft ground when Geralt lowers Jaskier’s coffin into the dirt. 

A single is posthumously released the next morning. Geralt understands why Jaskier never wanted him to hear it when Jaskier’s voice sing back to him, “ _ These hands are growing cold, they’re running out of things to hold. Give me two damn minutes and I’ll be fine _ .”

Geralt turns the radio off. 

vi.

Jaskier’s music fades from the public knowledge. Some people still like it, and Geralt hears it occasionally when he finds his way in an old thrift shop. Soon after Jaskier’s last death, Geralt sold the apartment, and put everything he could in storage. It was hard, staying in the place where he had spent years watching Jaskier waste away. 

So he moved on, as best he could. He traveled, for a while, around the world and back as many times as he could before the burning started and he settled again. He’s somewhere in America at this point, drinking in some bar to kill time when he hears of a new and upcoming band playing the next town over. 

The singer, says the person Geralt is listening in on, has the most gorgeous cornflower blue eyes and wild brown hair. 

Even if the tug in his chest hadn’t been pulling him in that direction, Geralt probably would have gone just to see the man who looked like Jaskier.

Much like last time, Jaskier finds him after the show, but the glow of recognition in his eyes is faint this time. “Do I..know you?” He asks, fingers just grazing Geralt’s arm.

Geralt just looks through him, waiting for Jaskier to remember. 

“So what’s your review, you must have something to say about my new music.” Jaskier’s face breaks into a grin and Geralt looks up sharply. “C’mon,” he drawls as he plants himself right over Geralt’s lap. “You wouldn’t want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting.”

Over the ringing in his ears, Geralt hears someone yell for Jaskier,  _ actually for Jaskier _ , which means… “Who in the hell named you Jaskier this time?”

Jaskier’s grin stretches even further. “I did. It just felt right at the time.”

And it’s so much like the first time they met that Geralt finds himself talking, saying words that he’d kept locked up for centuries. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For letting you die, the first time, for being the one who caused it. I was careless with my words and wished for peace. I got it, but not how I wanted it.” Geralt’s thumbs are rubbing soft circles on the flesh of Jaskier’s thighs. 

Jaskier laughs. “Geralt, I’ve forgiven you since the second time we met. But,” Jaskier brings his hands up to cup Geralt’s face. “If it makes you feel better, I forgive you, now.” 

Something in Geralt snaps - a thread that had been pulled taunt finally breaking in half. The magic that had been binding them in this cycle for centuries is gone, and Geralt can feel the age settling in his joints. “I love you,” Geralt breathes against Jaskier’s lips. 

This time, he’ll have a whole lifetime with Jaskier, and when it’s time to go, Geralt will go too. 

**Author's Note:**

> so there are a couple songs in this: the title is from [guarded](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TW_EdKRuG9Q) by flor; and then the first song jaskier sings is [battle cries](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QttUYOF3fNk) by the amazing devil and the second song is [two minutes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a3YhMe19-_c), also by the amazing devil


End file.
